


Where It's Dark

by oheart



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (bc werewolf transformation), Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Horror, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Werewolf John Marston, Werewolves, no TB, werewolf typical violence/gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oheart/pseuds/oheart
Summary: “I want to drive you through the night, down the hillsI'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hearI'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear”—Kavinsky, Nightcall“The lawmen followed him for almost two days straight, like bloodhounds, before John diverted to the mountains, hoping to lose them in the snow.John rode until nightfall, drawing circles around the mountain and doing his best to cover his tracks. The snow was thick and treacherous and it was only luck and the full moon shining in the sky that kept his horse from breaking a leg on the rocky ground. In the end, he did lose the lawmen, but something else found him in the dark."





	1. FULL MOON / THIRD QUARTER

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onlyifyourun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyifyourun/gifts).



> i wouldn't classify this as a horror story, but it's a monster story, where monstrous things happen sometimes, including love.
> 
> or: the one where we escape tb, but not supernatural rabies.
> 
> (a gift for onlyifyourun, who proof reads most of my things. even when she has bad cramps.)

GROWTH – PART I

“But I prefer to see it as the study of change […] It’s just the constant.  
It’s the cycle. It’s solution, dissolution, just over and over and over.  
It is _**growth, then decay, then transformation.** _"

_— Breaking Bad (2008)_

THE MOUNTAIN 

The Blackwater job had gone terribly wrong. They had barely boarded the ferry, when the Law jumped on them, out of nowhere. And not any lawmen: Pinkertons, from the looks of it. The agent leading that squadron seemed to have a personal dislike for Dutch, from the way he’d been breathing down their neck for the past couple months.

In the confusion, the passengers panicked. Dutch ended up shooting a young girl. The scene that been gory. John still didn't fully understand why Dutch had chosen that course of action. _Maybe he panicked_ , John debated with himself, _Maybe he'd noticed something the rest of them hadn't_. John would've preferred to just let her go, but he figured Dutch must've had his reasons. 

In the chaos the ensued, they had to hide the money and run as best as they could, trading bullets with Pinkertons left and right. Dutch yelled orders to disperse and the men instantly spread out in small groups, each to its direction. John quickly mounted Bullseye and high tailed on his own. It was only half a mile later that he noticed he had been shot in the leg. He ripped his shirt sleeve off and stopped the bleeding as best as he could, but the agents were still hot on his heels. They followed him for almost two days straight, like bloodhounds, before John diverted to the mountains, hoping to lose them in the snow. 

John rode until nightfall, thankful for the Dutch Warmblood’s stamina, as he pushed Bullseye for hours, drawing circles around the mountain and doing his best to cover his tracks. The snow was thick and treacherous and it was only luck and the full moon shining in the sky that kept his mare from breaking a leg on the rocky ground. In the end, he did lose the lawmen, but something else found him in the dark. 

As John swayed on his horse, vision blurring from exhaustion and blood loss, a strange eerie sound reached his ears. It resembled the blowing wind at first, until it grew in volume and intensity. _Wolves,_ he thought, as the symphony of howls grew louder and fear bloomed in his chest. _They can smell the blood_. How many hours had he been riding for, going further and further into the white mountain? For how long had the wolves been following him, disguised by the howling wind? _Have I been chasing my own tail, like a fool lost in the snow, under their patient eyes?_ The hair on the back of John's neck stood up as he pulled at the reins, turning the horse in tight circles, checking all directions. Picturing yellow eyes hiding behind the white curtain. 

An odd sight caught his eyes. A fire, he thought at first, spotting the pair of orange lights in the distance. The lights blinked, though, and a hulking dark mass stepped out of the blizzard and into John's vision. The lights weren't fire at all, but a pair of glowing eyes, reflecting the moon light like a cougar’s pupils. But that pair didn’t belong to no cat, John thought, as the biggest wolf he had ever seen stood there in the snow. The beast was as dark as a night without moon, an unnatural black void against the white blizzard. Its jaw was hanging open in a mockery of a smile. Red tongue lolling outside, as if to taste the air. Its shoulders were massive, it was easily over three feet tall standing on all fours. 

Even from a distance, John could see where the creature's hot breath evaporated the snow before it could fall to the ground. Its teeth were terribly white in that red cruel gap, almost deceptively so. As if that mouth had been made for anything but ripping and killing. There was no mistaking its intent, though. Death was a clear promise in the creature's strangely expressive eyes. 

Those eyes. Above the thing's unnatural size and the imminent threat John found himself in, it was the eyes that made him freeze. There was something abnormal about that glowing blaze, that shook John to the bone. Something inherently perverse in the illusion of sentience that he found there, inhabiting such a beastly body. 

_I shouldn't have come here_ , John thought dazed, as a primal fear gripped his heart, _I shouldn't be here._ He couldn't rip his eyes away from that awful gaze. He was stuck like a deer facing a predator that had sneaked too close and now can't be outrun. As if some old and intrinsic part of John had seen that creature and known it was too late to fight or flee. 

The giant black creature stopped. It made no effort to move, as it stood there, holding John's terrified gaze. Silently and invisible to John, other, smaller wolves circled around him and his horse, inching closer and closer. By the time his mare noticed the grey shadows' approach, letting out a panicked neigh, it was too late. Both man and horse were pulled to the ground by sharp claws and snarling jaws. 

The black wolf stood to the side, watching with attentive redish eyes, as its grey siblings took down their prey. 

The wolves bit and growled at each other above John, in a frenesi to get to the horse first. John struggled to drag his leg out from under his dying mount in a final panicked effort, losing his revolver somewhere in the snow. He crawled away from that gory sight, leaving a trail of his own blood behind. He made it to a small gap on the side of the mountain and tried to squeeze his body into that hole. He gasped at the sharp pain when his wounded leg scraped against the rock, but still he pushed forward. 

He could still hear the wolves behind him. The growling, the snap of bones, Bullseye’s screams. John closed his eyes, trying not to picture the mare that had been with him for the last seven years, dying out there alone, seal brown coat covered in blood. The gap wasn't too deep and John had to sit and press his back against the inner wall to keep his whole body inside. The leg burned dreadfully in that position, folded against his chest. His whole body ached. His hands were shaking and his heart was thudding wildly in his chest. 

Despite the cold, his two layers of clothes glued to his skin, while sweat stung in his eyes. Or maybe it was blood. He knew he had been cut in the attack. Could feel the burn in his arms and chest, but none of the wounds felt deep enough for concern. Besides, he couldn't drag his eyes away from the entrance of his hiding place to check. The wolves were still outside and they could find him again at any moment. 

Shivering in that hole, John's thoughts drifted away by their own volition. Away from that mountain and from the snarling death that waited outside. He began to wonder about the rest of the gang. Would Dutch be giving a speech right now, to lift up the men's spirits after the Blackwater fiasco? Would Javier be playing a song, while Hosea told jokes? Would they mention John? A footnote on a list of the day's losses? Would Abigail be angry, or would relief cross her features, like it'd sometimes, when she saw him leave the camp, even though she was nice enough to try and hide it? 

Would Arthur scribble down a little cross for him in his journal? Write an entry about it? _Marston got himself lost a couple days ago, probably died in some stupid way. Took one of our best horses with him, more is the pity._ it would say. Or maybe he wouldn't write anything at all. Maybe there would be no anger or mockery. Maybe no one would ever notice his absence, he thought, feeling a little frantic. 

Sometimes John dreamed he was invisible, wandering the camp like a ghost, watching people go about their business for whole days on end, as nothing changed. No one ever called his name or wondered where he'd been. In those mornings, when he woke up, he'd walk around camp in a daze, the taste of that dream still lingering on his tongue. 

John could feel the blood dripping down his thigh now, pooling on the rock underneath him. The whole leg had gone numb, either from blood loss or the cold, or both. His head felt so heavy, his eyes began to flutter shut as his chin touched his chest. He felt the frost creeping into his bones, turning his thoughts into fog. It's almost over, he thought. 

I heavy thud outside caught his attention. John lifted his head up, gingerly. And froze to his very core when his eyes met hellish red on a sea of coal. The black wolf was outside, peering at John through the gap with eerie calm. It was so big, that from this close, all John could see was its massive head. Its snout was dripping with blood. A darker stain against the bottomless blackness of its face. John scrambled backwards, meeting nothing but stone. He pressed helplessly against it, trying to put space between him and the horror outside. 

The wolf that was not a wolf opened its jaw, wet tongue coming out to lick at the blood around it. After a charged moment, the jaw snapped closed with finality and, without warning, the creature leaped forward, eyes fixed on its prey. John screamed and closed his eyes, turning his face away reflexively. When the claws and fangs never came, he peered back slowly. What he saw made his eyes widen and his blood run cold. The black snout was mere inches from his face, the horrible row of teeth glistening in the dark and thick with blood and saliva. 

When the creature exhaled, John felt the hot putrid puff of air against his own mouth. When it growled loud as a thunder, John felt his own teeth shake with it. The gap on the mountain would have been big enough for a normal wolf, but not for this one. As it was, the thing had just enough room to fit its giant head through it, but nothing more. Its massive shoulders were what saved John's life. The wolf-like nightmare wasn't ready to give up, though. John saw genuine hatred and accusation burning in its maroon eyes, before it dragged itself backwards out of the hole. 

Between one breath and the other, the creature had charged forward again at full force, shaking the walls with it. Debris fell all around them and dust gathered in the air. _Its going to dig it's way inside._ John realized, horrified. _The thing will crack this little cave open like an egg to get to me. And then it's gonna tear me apart, limb from limb._

John threw his gaze around, frantically. There had to be something he could do, anything. The black mass charged again. This time the snout came even closer. The cold nose touched John's cheek and when the tongue came out, he felt the hot muscle against his neck and jaw. John's eyes were squeezed shut again. The creature was too terrible to behold. The sounds it made alone were threatening to drive him mad. And the smell, God. The putrid smell of blood and rotten flesh and something else. Something old and indescribable. Something that did not belong to this world. Or maybe had belonged to it for far longer than man could comprehend. 

When it charged a third time, John's leg came up to block it. A reflexive last effort of a wounded animal about to die. The kick landed on the black nose. The thing retreated instinctively. It had clearly suffered no damage, but it responded viciously. It snarled once at John, showing a bloody wall of fangs that seemed to crowd his whole vision. Then a massive black paw swept through the gap, lighting-fast, hitting John across the face. Blood gushed on the wall, as sharp claws ripped his cheek open. The heavy blow knocked his head against the rock hard enough to put black spots in his vision. 

The last thing John saw was the dark creature freezing mid charge and sniffing the air, calculating. The lupine horror sent John one last fiery look filled with raw hatred, before retreating slowly and disappearing back into the white wind. Then, John's own blood blocked his vision. Lastly, shots echoed in the mountain and a voice shouted his name. After that, there was only darkness. 

* * *

John was dreaming again, eyes shifting rapidly beneath burning eyelids. Cracked lips moving, nonsensical, around whispered words no one could hear. His skin prickled, feverish and clammy, too hot and too cold. The pain from his wounds seeped into his subconscious, translating into dreams of fire and bottomless black holes and snapping jaws and piercing screams. 

In his dreams, every inch of him burned. He could smell his own searing skin, the stench of burnt hair and clothes. If he screamed in those dreams, he couldn't say for sure, for all sounds were quickly drown out by the ever-present howling. It crowded his ears and mind, until it was all he could comprehend, all that existed. In those dreams, he was completely alone and he knew help wasn't coming. It was only him, the night and the full moon, looming over everything, hungry and terrible, growing unnaturally large against the dark sky. 

All he could do was stare at Her white bright gaze, as his own skin shed from his body. It was Her cold presence that burned and gnawed at him, that he knew. Amidst the agony, that was his only clarity. That and the dreadful certainty that as he turned his eyes up to Her blinding light, Her own gaze would slip through his open eyelids, breaching deep within him. And under that all-knowing eye, there would be nowhere for John to hide. 

Those dreams would come at all times, showing no predilection for day or night. Perhaps because John himself could not tell either apart. He remained in that state, neither awake or asleep. Sweating through his clothes and sheets, as rough caring hands saw him through the worst of it. 

On the seventh day, the fever broke. 

In all things, as sure as pain always comes, mercy also makes itself known. When consciousness returned to John, memory fled, taking the terrible images of dreadful darkness and glowing maroon eyes away with it. 

John woke up without alarm. His eyes opened, slow and easy, in a dark unfamiliar room. The pain and the cold were gone. He flexed his leg and pulled back the bedsheet, to take a look at it. The bullet wound seemed to be healing well. The muscle moved without strain and the bleeding had stopped, leaving behind two circular scabs where the bullet had ripped right through the flesh. 

John set up on the bed and took a look around. An odd calm lingered over his skin. He was in a small, dark and run-down room. All he could see was a dresser, missing a couple of its drawers, a broken desk and, in a dark corner, a chair with piles of blankets, clothes and whatnot stacked over it. 

It must be just past dawn, John thought to himself. As he looked around, the room seemed to slowly lit up, as if the sun had just now breached the horizon, spilling just a little through the small, snow covered window. But a quick look proved him wrong. Between the snowy corners, the clear center of the glass revealed the stars and the bright mouth of the half moon. 

John looked back inside the room. His eyes had adjusted quickly to the darkness. He could see the cracks on the walls, the water stains on the ceiling, the texture of the wood dresser. Could smell the mold that lingered in the air. Could hear the wind wailing outside, could practically smell the wet cold of the snow. 

Suddenly a rhythmic sound made itself known in the small room. A war drum, John thought, dazed. It bounced through the walls, echoing against John's own eardrums. Its tempo seemed to match John's pulse, producing its booming sound in the gaps between his own slow heart beats, like twin drums playing an ancient well-rehearsed song. 

John rested his hand flat against his breastbone. His eyes followed the new corners and silhouettes his now accustomed vision had uncovered, searching for the source of the sound. His eyes fell back on the pile on the chair, still mostly covered by shadows in the far corner of the room. A new sound joined the drumming. A slow hissing, like a soft exhale. It came and went, over and over, as John stared confused. Almost without thought, he was on his feet and moving towards the sound. The act was quick and fluid, despite his recent injuries. 

A careless step on unfamiliar floorboards betrayed his movement and the creak from the old wood board went off in the quiet room like a yelp. The hissing sound stopped abruptly and the shadowy lump moved. For a second, John thought the pile of blankets had collapsed and his hands shot forward to brace it. But he was closer now. Close enough that he could now see the pile of fabrics was no pile at all, but a person. Whoever it was, they had wrapped themselves in thick layers of clothes and at least two wool blankets that John could see. Guarding themselves against a biting cold that John himself couldn't really feel, despite the heavy snow outside. 

The person peaked from under the covers, startled. 

" _Arthur?_ "John enquired, recognizing the pair of green eyes blinking up at him. 

Arthur got up from the chair in a sudden rush, scrambling a little with his many layers. He was pale, eyes fixed on the man in front of him, like John was some ghost crawling out of the swamps. 

Surprise gave way to confusion, as Arthur's eyes roamed John's face. 

"John," he started uncertain, voice heavy with sleep. "You... You're awake? Hosea said you wouldn't- Christ," he exhaled, sounding annoyed and bone tired now, dragging a hand across his eyes, "the hell are you doing up, Marston? You-," Arthur interrupted himself, frowning at John. The sleep-fog seemed to clear away at once. 

"Your face," he murmured, hand coming up to touch John's right cheek, but dropping back down before it could make contact. "It healed already?" he grunted incredulously, "just yesterday you looked... well, you looked like hell." His hand went up to his own face instead, scratching at the new beard there. "You really are one lucky sonuvabitch, Marston." He sounded confused, lost in thought, though, with none of the sharp wit that usually came with that particular jab. 

John's hand followed Arthur's gaze. He traced the rough patch of skin where new scars marked his face. Two thick lines on his cheek, one of them stretching all the way past the bridge of his nose. Another on his temple. The skin was still a little tender, but the scar tissue felt old under his rough fingertips. 

"I don't remember... How long was I out?" John whispered, holding Arthur's gaze. 

"A week," he swallowed, throat no doubt dry from sleep, "Javier and I, uh, we found you half frozen in that mountain and brought you back. The wolves got Bullseye," he sounded almost apologetic, as John winced at the memory, but soon his face had closed around the familiar scowl again. "Tried to get to you, too, by the look of things. Lucky for you, they didn't seem to think you were worth the trouble, and I cant really blame 'em," he continued, almost without inflection. 

Sometimes he sounded like even being cruel to John was more attention than he deserved. "We've been holed up here and couldn't go searching for a doctor because of this damn storm, but Hosea took good care of you," Arthur cleared his throat, looking away from John's scars and around the room. "He's gonna be insufferable once he sees just how well his homemade medicine worked." 

It could've been a joke, if he and Arthur had still been the type of partners to trade jokes together. Or partners at all. As fate would have it, they were barely on speaking terms, most days. John traced his scars again. Neither men laughed. 

"Ain't you cold?" Arthur asked suddenly, looking down at John's chest. Both men seemed to only then realize that John had nothing but his breeches on. "Chrissake, John, put some clothes on. Hosea will kill me if you catch pneumonia after all the time he spent nursing your sorry ass." Arthur stumbled through the room, feeling around the furniture until his booted feet collided with a footlocker by the bed. "Here," he handed John a dark gray shirt with white buttons and a pair of black pants. 

The fabric felt soft and worn in John's hand. When he threw the shirt over his head, John was startled by the myriad of smells that assaulted his senses. Old leather, cheap soap, the mint leaves the other man seemed to always carry in his pockets, sweat and _Arthur_. He didn't know when exactly that distinction began to exist in his mind, but that smell was somehow undeniably connected to the other man. 

He brought the wrist of the shirt against his nose, liking how the texture felt against his lips and the way he could practically taste all the different smells like that. He spotted his own boots near the footlocker and set down on the bed to put them on. 

John looked back at Arthur. The other man looked truly exhausted. Now, that the surprise had worn off, he seemed to be fighting against sleep, blinking rapidly and almost swaying on his feet. John watched as Arthur stumbled around the room, cursing darkly when he almost knocked his chair over as he tried to sit back down. 

"Christ, Morgan, you really gonna spend the night on that chair? Don't you have a bed in this place?" Arthur wasn't a small guy by any means. Watching him try and fold himself to fit in that chair was enough to make John wince. 

Exhaustion must've impaired the other man's night vision, for when he cracked an eye open to glare at John, he was about two feet off to the left. 

"Mind your own damned business, Marston," he snapped, pulling the blanket back over his face. "Ain't you caused enough trouble? You might as well honor your status as the laziest man alive and go back to sleep. It's all you're good for, these days." 

John ignored the insult. It wasn't anything he hadn't already heard in the years since he came back. Sometimes it was almost like the animosity of the last four years was all they'd ever had. As if the ten years of easy camaraderie from before had just been a childish daydream John couldn't help but entertain sometimes. In that point, Arthur was right, though. John had slept for too long. He felt rested, energetic, even. 

He wanted to march outside, feel the night air against his skin, take a look around this new camp, see who was awake and what they were up to, check the perimeter, make sure they weren't being watched. It felt like a particularly nasty case of cabin fever, making him bounce his leg and scratch at his own skin in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety. 

John bolted out of bed, fast and silent. He was out through the door before even being fully aware of his decision. Arthur only noticed his intentions when John had already gone past him. The man barked an annoyed, "hey!", that went completely ignored as John continued his way past the cabin's main room and then onto the white canvas outside. 

Snow was falling heavily all around and John braced for the cold that never came. He took a deep breath, relishing all the natural smells he had never stopped to notice before. He gazed up at the night sky. The stars seemed to shine brighter than ever and, when his eyes landed on the half moon, it felt to him like the night itself was smiling down at him. 

"Marston," a voice hissed from behind him. Arthur, he thought, the moment the first syllable touched his ears, "what the hell are you doing?!" Arthur was doing his best to keep his voice down, but John could taste his anger in every note. 

John turned around, facing him. The other man was standing under the door frame. The lantern hanging from his right hand and swaying with the wind cast strange moving shadows over his face. John was transfixed by the contrast between the cabin, now lit by the warm light, with its familiar nooks and comforts, looming behind Arthur and the wild bright night, that seemed to call to John with all its new smells and colors and sounds. For a moment, John held his breath and time stopped, as Arthur stood there, oscillating like a flickering shadow, at the doorstep between those two worlds. 

Arthur took half a step outside, and then stopped, retreating back into the cabin and shivering against the cold. He pulled his thick blue coat tighter around himself. "Get the hell back inside, you moron!" He barked, "you'll catch your death messing around like that!" 

With that, the moment passed and John shook himself out of his reveries. He looked down at himself, body covered in snow and ankle deep in it, too. He shivered, suddenly confused by his own actions. 

He stumbled back to the cabin, clumsily. "I don't, I don't know what came over me," he mumbled mostly to himself as Arthur pulled him all the way inside with rough hands. 

"You're an idiot and the fever cooked what little brains the wolves left in your skull, is what happened," Arthur manhandled him with cold hands back into the room. 

Arthur shoved him onto the bed roughly and collapsed against the chair, shivering and exhausted. 

"Now, stay on that goddamn bed and let me get some sleep, before I really lose my temper and knock you out myself, Marston," he threatened, though his eyes were already closed and his words were slurred with sleep. 

John wanted to argue. To tell Arthur to take the bed at least, but he could tell by his slow even breathing that the man was falling asleep already. John took his own boots off, defeated, and buried his face on the pillow, willing his mind to stop racing. At some point, the familiar smell of mint and cheap soap against his nose and the slow thrumming that echoed in the room must've guided John back to sleep. 

On the next day, the storm cleared and Dutch announced they were ready to head east. Into warmer lands, away from the howling wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's alive!
> 
> oh, just a psa: please heed the warning for graphic violence. there are werewolves here and sometimes they like to chew on things of the fleshy variety.
> 
> also, i'm a fan of old school werewolf transformation, where the change hurts and deforms and the arrival of the full moon stands as a metaphor for anxiety and loss of control. so... expect the transformation to be a little gross (sorry? it's for a good cause?? pls don't hate me)


	2. WANING CRESCENT

GROWTH – PART II

“I learned to recognize the thorough and primitive duality of man;  
I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness,  
even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because _**I was radically both**_.” 

_― Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_

THE HUNT 

They had settled well enough in the new camp. Horseshoe Overlook, Hosea had called it. The weather was kinder and morale was building up again, despite Blackwater. It had taken John a while to convince Dutch that he was fully recovered and fit for duty, but the man was finally beginning to cave. 

John was stealing an oil cart, alongside Sean and Arthur, when it first happened. It started with a dull ache in his jaw, that pulsed like a raw nerve when John tried to bite down on it. A wobbly tooth, he thought, must have knocked it lose at some point in the scuffle. He had put the thought aside, when the bullets started to whistle through the air coming from behind them. 

Later, though, after the stagecoach had been properly hidden and the three of them had returned safely to camp, the issue made itself known again. John had just sat down with a hot plate of Pierson's stew, when a particularly thick chunk of meat disturbed the sore tooth. The pain traveled all the way from his gums to his jaw and down his neck. John winced with a startled sound, spitting his mouthful of stew on the grass. It came out dense with blood. 

John stared at the red stain on the green grass, frowning. His jaw still ached a little. Before he could wonder about the blood, something in the mess caught the sun light, drawing his attention. He picked it up, rubbing off the blood. It was a tooth. A molar. _His_ molar, he realized. He moved his tongue around his mouth, instinctively trying to spot the empty space. 

John was no stranger to loose teeth. Once, he had headbutted a man in a brawl and, afterwards, when he set down gingerly to clean off the sweat and blood from his hands and face, two of the man's teeth had fallen down from where they had been tangled in John's hair the whole time. As a child, John himself had had most of his baby teeth knocked out of him in similar fashion, on more than one occasion. 

This was strange, though. John couldn't remember being clocked on the mouth recently. And this sharp pain in his jaw was definitely unusual. He touched the inside of his mouth, running his finger along the rows of teeth over and over, looking for the missing one. There was no gap he could find, though. 

He pressed down on the tooth right where the pain was sharper. It felt bigger and a little more pointy than the others, but it wasn't wobbly like he had expected it to be. John looked back at the tooth in his other hand. Maybe it wasn't his at all. Pierson wasn't the most diligent of men. It wasn't uncommon to find a hair or two in his stew. One time, Bill had almost choked to death on a piece of cork that had fallen from Pierson's bottle and into the pan. The memory still made John snicker. Maybe the mysterious tooth had fallen in the stew at some point and John just happened to be the lucky bastard to find it. The thought was more than a little gross, but John had eaten worse. 

He flung the tooth over his shoulder without a second thought and finished the stew in record time, famished. 

Two days later, another tooth fell out. John hadn't been eating that time and again, when he pressed down on it, there were no empty spaces. _A wisdom tooth_ , he told himself, _just an extra useless tooth that fell out on its own. That's why there's no gap between the teeth and why my whole jaw aches so much these days._ Sometimes the pain was so obnoxious, his brain started to picture the roots of the teeth grinding against each other, deep inside his gums. The suggestion was so powerful, John could almost hear the sound they made. 

That night he went to bed with a sense of dread growing in his chest. He had been having nightmares that would always disperse like fog in the morning light. Despite the bad feeling that they left in the pit of his stomach and the back of his throat, John almost wished he could remember those dreams. If only so he would know what was causing him to wake in the middle of night, sweating and startled. What made him so scared, that he would scramble out of his tent, gasping, looking for the moonlight. John had never been afraid of the dark, not even as a boy. But on those nights, it seemed the only thing that could comfort him was that sliver light shining in the night sky. 

Later in the night, John inevitably found himself outside his tent, shaking and blinking up at the waning moon. His mind felt groggy with what little still remained of the dream: a bright light, from a torch or a star, maybe. Even as he tried to decipher that bit, the memory slipped away, already forgotten. His eyes fluttered as he stared at the black sky. The moon looked smaller each night, he noticed. Soon, it would be a moonless night. For some reason, that felt important to him. 

Arthur was on guard duty, his mind suddenly supplied. No one had told John that, but somehow, he just knew. Just as he knew exactly where, behind the cover of the trees, Arthur was standing. He walked in that direction. The night was blooming with sounds and smells, but John was perfectly silent. He singled out the familiar heartbeat and followed. 

Arthur was standing with his back to the camp, leaning against a large tree. He smelled like leather, horse and gunpowder. When he exhaled, the air burst with a mix of the cool and bitter scent of mint and coffee. But, underneath it all, Arthur just smelled like himself. John inhaled through his mouth. That way, it was almost like he could taste the air, turning scent into flavor. Arthur was standing against the wind, he noticed. Everything felt stronger that way. He took a step closer to the other man's back, silent like a dark shadow. 

There was only three feet between him and the other man, when something changed. Another heartbeat joined the mix, bringing its own set of smells. Charles, his brain provided after a beat. He whirled on his feet, facing the new source. The movement must have startled Arthur, for the man inhaled loudly behind him, scrambling with his rifle, heartbeat pulsing wildly through the night. Before words could be exchanged, Charles stepped into view. Arthur jumped a little again, still rattled. 

Charles froze when he spotted the two. 

"John?" he inquired, frowning. The name cracked like thunder against John's mind. It seemed to pull him from a trance John hadn't even been aware he was under. He looked down at himself, wondering how he had gotten there all the way from his tent. 

"I came to relieve you, Arthur," Charles continued when neither man answered. "It's three a.m., it's my watch." He sounded uncertain, almost apologetic. It wasn't an usual look on him. John could practically feel the hesitation exhaling from his skin. 

"I just thought I heard a sound and came to check what it was," John lied, looking Charles straight in the eye. He could tell the other man didn't believe him, but he kindly nodded along with the lie anyway, "I'm going back to my tent, now. Wake me up if anything happens." John risked a final look at Arthur. The man was looking back at him with intent. Even as he passed the rifle along to Charles, his eyes never left John. He wore a mix of unease and concern, but for whom, John couldn't tell. 

John turned away, before the two men could ask any more questions that he hadn't the answers to. 

Just as he was crossing the line of trees and stepping back into the camp, he heard Charles and Arthur talking in hushed voices. He picked up Charles saying something about being careful and then John's name. Who had to be careful, though, John wondered. Himself? Arthur? Next to Charles, Arthur mumbled something in return, somewhat harshly. The man started to move towards the camp and John rushed to his own tent. He lied there awake, grinding his sore teeth and listening to the sounds of the camp until sunrise. 

* * *

In the morning, John found Hosea nursing a cup of coffee by the fire. He brought the cup up in greeting, offering warmth in the form of a smile when John set down beside him. 

"How's today treating you, son?" 

"Oh, you know. Can't complain," John answered, working his achy jaw. "Listen, have you ever heard of a wisdom tooth just falling off by itself?" John felt stupid just asking, but if anyone would know anything about that, it had to be Hosea. 

"I reckon it could happen," Hosea scratched his chin pensively, "I once met a feller, who had such a bad case of toothache, no dentist could solve it. One night the miserable fool got drunk as a skunk and decided to pull out the damn tooth himself, with nothing but a knife and a rock. Bastard ended up cutting his own tongue off," he winced at that, "he survived, though. Lived to his sixties, if memory serves. The damned tooth never stopped hurting, though." Hosea laughed at this own tale. 

John chuckled along, shaking his head, more than a little fond. He wasn't sure if the story was true or not. When it came to Hosea, it was impossible to tell. But it didn't really matter. Veracity was never the point of his stories. 

"That so," he offered. 

"That so," Hosea agreed, brown eyes shining with mischief. 

The exchange was interrupted when John's stomach rumbled loudly. Hosea's white eyebrows climbed up his forehead a little, amused. John winced, pressing down on his abdomen, as if to muffle the sound. He had been famished lately, eating almost at all hours. He got up suddenly, mind set on what to do next. 

He saddled his new horse, Old Boy, making sure to pack his Lancaster repeater and deer bait. The dark bay Hungarian Halfbred had been gifted to him by Hosea as soon as they reached Valentine on their path southeast from the mountains. Bullseye had been a huge and unstoppable work horse and the new gelding proved to be a tad smaller and slower than what John was used to, but he was the friendliest and calmest horse John had ever ridden. John brushed Old Boy’s silver mane affectionately and was about to pull himself up on the horse, when the wind shifted briefly, carrying over a sound that made him halt. 

On the other side of the camp, Mrs Grimshaw and Abigail seemed to be having some sort of quiet argument. The women were too far away for him to make out the discreetly hissed words, but their body language was clear enough. 

John wrestled in his head over whether he should intervene or not. Five years ago, he'd have approached them without second thought. Mrs. Grimshaw was the gang's arbiter. She ran a tight ship and John wouldn't dream of undermining her authority, but years under her firm hand had taught him a thing or two on how to best navigate the woman's wrath and soften the blows a little. Five years ago, Abigail would have welcomed the effort, nowadays he wasn't so sure. 

John slowly crossed the camp, despite his best judgment. 

"I told you, already. I don't wanna do that, no more," Abigail hissed through gritted teeth, as John neared their spot. 

"When will you children understand. Life ain't all about what you want. All of you _will_ do your fair share of work here, miss Roberts, or I'll-" 

"I _do_ my damn share!" Abigail interrupted, incredulous, voice rising a little. 

Mrs. Grimshaw huffed, frustration and disappointment filling the sound. "All I want is to keep you fools from starving to death, yourself included. Hopefully one day, if you get to be my age, you will look back and understand that. In the meantime, do find something useful to do, miss Roberts." She turned and left without another word. Before John could even debate what to do, the argument was over. 

Abigail turned and startled when she spotted John. Her eyes went a little wide and for a split second, she looked upset and vulnerable. But then it was gone, as she looked at him with annoyance instead. 

"Enjoying the show, Marston?" 

He faltered, realizing what it must've looked like. 

Over the years, Abigail had perfected a knack to chide him for any and all shortcomings, no matter how small. It went terribly well with John's own remarkable ability to stick his foot in his mouth at any giving opportunity. He couldn't remember the last time they were left alone for more than twenty minutes that didn't end with both barking at each other until they were red in the face. 

John would had fought harder against the loss of the easy friendship they once had, if he had anyone to blame but himself. He drove the last nail into that coffin all those years ago when he left without so much as a word. His absence had only lasted a year, but he sometimes wondered if Abigail wished he hadn't returned at all. She was slow to forgive and John was even slower to ask for it. In the past four years, she hadn't looked at him the same way once. 

_Neither has Arthur_ , the thought slithered in the corner of John's mind, unwanted. People don't forget, nothing gets forgiven, his father used to say. Even a useless drunk could be right once in a while. 

Abigail rolled her eyes at his lack of response, dragging John back to the present. 

"Sean told me about this new job of yours," she started, "the one with the train and the oil cart." 

"It's Arthur's job," he corrected automatically, caught in the sudden change of subject, "and Sean talks too much." 

"It doesn't matter whose job it is," she looked him up and down and nodded at the repeater on his back, "you are as stupid as you look, if you plan on heading out on your own, John Marston. It's been barely a week since you were half dead on that bed-" 

"I'm well aware of how long it's been," he snapped, "it's way past time Dutch let me pull my weight again. Besides, this has nothing to do with Arthur's train, so quit your nagging already." 

Abigail pressed her lips on a thin line, frustration coming out of her almost like a physical thing. She looked at him like he was a particularly nasty stain under her shoe, turned and left. John stood there feeling empty and guilty without really knowing why. 

He shook his head and went back to his horse. Mounting Old Boy and giving him a gentle pat on the neck, John turned away from the camp, leaving his frustrations behind and mind set on coming back with a deer strapped to his horse before dinner. 

* * *

John was a great shot, but an inpatient hunter. Hosea had shown him how to study the forest, how to spot the trails and the marks on the ground, how to position himself according to the wind. He had taught John everything he needed to know to be a good hunter, but no amount of lessons could change how dull the job of tracking was to him. John had developed the habit of taking store bought bait with him whenever he went hunting. They were expensive, but they cut the tedious part almost to half. 

John got lucky that time, though. He must've picked a good day for hunting deer, for he found a parcel in no time. He had been riding along an old bear trail, when something snagged at his mind. Like a movement at the corner of his eye, but different. Deeper and less concrete, somehow. He got down from Old Boy and hitched him on a tree, carrying on by foot. He pressed forward slowly, not sure how he knew that was the right path, but trusting his instincts and Hosea's lessons to guide him. 

John must have walked for half an hour, when he saw them. A small family of deer, grazing idly in a clearing hidden by vegetation. John crouched by a large tree to observe them from behind a bush. He could see the older doe, flickering her white tail as she nibbled on the ground. Around her, her offspring mimicked her behavior; tree females and two bucks, all with their heads pointed down, encouraged by their mother's relaxed posture. 

The eldest of the latter, had a gash on his rear, likely from a close encounter with some young or unlucky predator. He limped almost imperceptibly as he strolled across the grass. The gash was less than a day old, John concluded. He could see the bright red blood and the muscle underneath. Even if it didn't get infected, that buck was now the slower of the siblings and would not survive another brush with death. Something about the blood and the way his right hind leg twitched every time he moved kept drawing John's gaze. 

The buck moved closer to John's position, unaware of the danger, and time slowed down as John’s world seemed zero in on his prey. 

John noticed his own heartbeat change, a slow chain of thunders drumming against his ear. His mouth began to water, as his stomach ached again. He could see the white in the buck's eye, could smell the earth and the sweat on his coat. He could see the muscle shifting underneath skin, and where the wound oozed fresh blood with the movement. 

John's hand shot for his Lancaster, suddenly jerky and clumsy around the weapon. His blood was thrumming in his veins, eyes glued to the bleeding animal in front of him, lips parted to let in the taste. 

The clunky weapon scrapped against the tree, loud in the quiet clearing. The older doe lifted her head, nostrils expanding and tail rigid in the air. She let out an alarmed sound, and bolted, hopping away and into the trees, instinct guiding her before she ever laid eyes on John. Her daughters and younger son followed suit, leaving behind the stench of sweat and primal fear. All, but the wounded buck. That one had strayed too far from his mother, inadvertently walking right into the predator's jaws. 

The animal froze. John had never been that near to a living wild deer before. From that close, he could see the forest reflected on the big brown eyes. Could see the chest moving frantically under each exhale, could hear the blood rushing through the body. John raised his weapon slowly and did not look away when the bullet hit its mark. 

The shot rang in the forest and, just like that, the spell was broken. John got to his feet stiffly, palms sweaty around the gun. He hoisted the deer on his shoulders and began his walk back to where he had left Old Boy on unsteady legs. He spent the rest of his ride back to camp trying to shake the strange and thrilling way that the hunt had made him feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope it's noticeable that charles totes thought they were making out in the bushes during arthur's watch.... for *coughs* plot reasons, of course.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are appreciated and keep ya girl goin'. also, hit me up @ohearting on twitter if that's your thing!! i made that account specifically for fic updates and morston feelios so, lets go morstons lets go.


	3. NEW MOON

DECAY – PART I

“It swallows me as it takes me in its fog.  
As it takes me down, and down, and down again.  
_**Is that the moon**_ or just a light that lights this dead-end street?  
Is that you there _**or just another demon that I meet?”**_

_― Metallica, The House That Jack Built_

THE DEBT 

It was a little past noon when John hitched his horse and dropped the deer by Pierson’s tent. The cook clapped him on the shoulder and offered a drink, but John shook his head slinking away, feeling suddenly tired and irritated. 

He was turning towards his own tent when a body collided with his. The smell of cheap whiskey and unwashed clothes assaulted his nostrils and he pushed the body away, mood souring even further. 

“Shit, watch where ya goin’, Marston! _Goddamn_ ,” Bill slurred, waving his bottle angrily in John’s face, getting booze all over the grass and on John’s boots. Bill was mostly harmless when drunk and usually John would have just shoved him aside and given him a wide berth, but John hadn’t slept a full night since Colter. That, combined with the constant pain in his jaw and the way exhaustion seemed to eat away at whole chunks of his days without his awareness, had been slowly feeding into his dark mood and an even worse headache. 

The next thing John saw was his own left hand shooting up lightning fast to push the bottle out of his face and his other fist colliding with Bill’s teeth. He barely registered the contact, but blood gushed, thick and warm, from the drunk’s mouth and he fell to the ground with a thud. John looked down at his hands, a little surprised by his own reaction. He wasn’t too worried about the other man, though. From the way he was groaning and spitting curses, Bill was obviously still conscious and likely too blissfully numbed by alcohol to feel the brunt of the pain. John was about to turn away, when a voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“ _Son_ ,” Dutch managed to somehow sound both derisive and disappointed, “you know my stance on altercations inside these grounds. If you can’t settle an argument like civilized men, then take your scuffle elsewhere." He waved a finger at John, giving emphasize to each word, "no brawling in my camp.” 

“I-” John started, not really knowing what he wanted to say. Even as the previous days took their toll, making him feel bone tired and strangely removed from his own actions and the people around him, nothing could mute that old familiar part of him that would always wince and avert eyes when scolded by that voice. 

Dutch’s eyes shifted into something more forgiving as he placed a fatherly hand heavily on John’s shoulder. 

“I know, son,” he sighed, understanding and pulling John away, “We’ve all been a little on edge lately. All you need is a distraction. I kept you cooped up here for too long, haven’t I,” the hand on John’s shoulder had guided him a few steps closer to the edge of the camp, as John listened closely to his words. Dutch suddenly stopped and shifted his focus to something behind John’s shoulder, not waiting for an answer, “Hey, Arthur!,” he called out, breaking the sharp focus John had kept on him, “where are you going, son?” 

John looked over his shoulder to see Arthur standing near the horses, looking a little put out by the sudden attention. 

“Uh, I’m headin’ out to collect one of Strauss’s depts,” he was looking back and forward from John to Bill, still lying on the floor with bottle firmly in hand, as if wondering what could his daily affairs have to do with whatever the men had been discussing. John was wondering the same. 

“Wonderful,” Dutch continued, with a nod, “take John with you, will ya.” Before John knew, that hand had turned him fully away with a firm grip and Dutch had left with a dismissive “Thank you, boys” and a pat on his back. 

Arthur let out a sigh, long and harsh, making it obvious how he felt about the arrangement. He didn’t protest, though. Neither of them was any good at saying no to Dutch. 

“Where’re we goin’?” John asked, getting back on his horse for what felt like the millionth time that day, as Arthur did the same beside him. 

“Just follow me and be quiet,” Arthur offered in response. 

It was John’s turn to sigh bitterly. This is going to be a long ride, he thought, grinding his teeth and gripping the reins too tight. 

* * *

They rode in silence. The odd feeling of scraping of bones below his teeth and the pain that had begun to spread through his skull kept John entertained enough. And Arthur... Well, Arthur rarely had anything to say to John that weren’t insults, so maybe they were both better off with silence for company. 

“We’re here,” Arthur eventually grunted, pulling him away from his thoughts. John looked around, taking in the small farm house and the feeble corn plot in front of it. Arthur got off his newly tamed white Arabian, shushing her gently when the mare shook her head, irritated. His previous mare, Bo’, had been killed in Blackwater and, according to what Charles had told him, in the couple days before they’d decided to go look for John, Arthur had stumbled on the Arabian out there in the mountains. Perhaps it was the fact that Bullseye had died in the same cold mountains she had come from, but John felt strangely fond of the ghostly white horse. 

Arthur had named her Moby, on the account of how long it had taken to track and tame her. She was a beauty to behold and fast as hell, but skittish, too. Her and Old Boy looked quite the pair, smaller frame and snow-white coat contrasting with the Hungarian Halfbred's dark bay one, but the animals had quickly grown to like each other, better than any other horse in the camp. The irony did not escape John. 

John hitched his horse and followed Arthur towards the house. 

“ _These_ are the folks we’re supposed to be collectin' money from?” John asked, eyeing the decrepit house dubiously. 

“Mr. Thomas Downes!,” Arthur hollered stopping in front of the house, “would you kindly step outside ‘fore I have to come in there and get you myself.” 

The front door pushed open with a timid creak. A small, pale man stepped outside. He came out from behind the door and crossed the front porch with hesitant, nervous steps. 

“You. Uh. What can I help you with?” He asked, jittery. Something about his pale complexion and thin bony frame made John feel immediately on edge. 

Arthur didn’t answer with words. When the small man put his foot on the first step, coming down from the porch, Arthur hands shot forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pushing him to the ground below. 

“Oh, don’t worry about helpin' me, Mr. Downes, worry about helpin' yourself,” Arthur advised darkly, looming over the man. “You owe me money. And I'm here to collect.” 

Something about the man wasn’t right, John thought to himself. The dark circles under his eyes and the red veins around pale irises, the whistling inhales and the way his chest heaved, like every breath was a struggle. The smell of rusted iron combined with something acrid and repelling, that seemed to fill the air with each of the man’s painful breaths. 

“Oh, no- no, I’m,” the man began to stammer, trying to slink away from Arthur’s wrath. 

Arthur groaned low in his chest, no doubt annoyed by the whole display. “Come here, you maggot,” he closed his fist on the man’s shirt again, keeping him in place as the other arm cocked back, punch ready to land. 

That was when John saw it. The drops of blood on the front of the man’s shirt, on the wrists of it, too. His body moved before his mind could fully process what that information meant. He grabbed Arthur’s arm before the fist could connect, dragging him backwards, away from the sick man. 

Arthur grunted, surprised. He recovered quickly, though, regaining his balance and shoving at John. 

“The hell was that for, Marston,” he barked, trying to turn back to Mr. Downes, who was now facing the ground and shaking all over from a rattling cough. 

John didn’t budge, and both men looked down surprised when the grip held true even after Arthur yanked hard at it. 

John’s brain finally caught up and he let go of Arthur’s arm in an instant. 

Only to have to immediately jump in and pull Arthur back, when the man turned around to grab at Mr. Downes again. 

“Arthur, Jesus, look at him,” he tried to reason, gripping the other man from behind, trapping his arms by his sides and holding him in place. Arthur must have been in a forgiving mood, for John knew he was more than capable of breaking that hold and flinging him to the ground like a ragdoll if he wanted to. “The man is _sick_ and he ain’t got the money,” he panted hurriedly against the shell of Arthur’s ear, knowing he didn’t have much time before Morgan really lost his patience. “What you gonna do, huh? Kick a man while he’s down? Beat him to death over nothin’?”. 

Mr. Downes was gasping and spitting blood against the dirt. The smell was nauseating. Arthur had stopped struggling in his arms. John could feel the man’s heartbeat drumming against his own chest. Suddenly a woman came running from the house. Her eyes grew wide and a scream ripped from her throat when she saw her husband heaving on the ground. She knelt by his side, resting his head against her chest as his breathing slowly normalized. The man looked exhausted, bloodshot eyes falling shut against the glare of the sun and spit and blood running down his open lips. 

Arthur took a step away from the scene, jerky and unsteady. John still had his arms around him and their legs tangled together for a moment, before John pulled away, letting his arms fall. 

A young man’s voice carried over from the house. 

“Ma?” the kid asked, alarmed, “Ma, what’s going on?” 

“Archie, no, don’t come outside!” Mrs. Downes yelled, glancing at John and Arthur, terrified, “Please, go back inside and stay there!” 

The panic in her voice seemed to strike Arthur like a physical blow. The man took another step back, almost knocking into John. Arthur’s hands slowly came up, in a pacifying gesture. 

“We ain’t gonna trouble you no more, ma’am,” he promised, voice rough. The woman wasn’t looking at them anymore, though. Her eyes were glued to her husband’s pained face, as she whispered reassurances to him. 

Arthur took another step back, standing beside John. Their shoulders knocked together, but Arthur didn’t move away. Not even when he put his arms back down and their hands brushed together briefly. 

“Let’s get out of here, John,” he breathed out, sounding impossibly tired. 

Both men turned away, leaving the farm behind, without another word. 

* * *

They were flanking the Dakota River, when Arthur broke the silence that had lingered between them since they left the Downes farm. 

“You was right back there, you know,” he muttered in a low voice. “I’d have beaten the poor bastard to death for no good reason, if you hadn’t stopped me,” he confessed in the silence that followed, “I don’t know, I think... part of me knew they didn’t have the money, but in that moment I just didn’t give a damn, as long as I got to break something.” 

Arthur rubbed his hand across his face, looking torn. 

“After Blackwater and the O’Driscoll’s, and now with the goddamned Pinkertons on our tail, all while Dutch keeps raving about this mysterious grand plan that will fix everything and Micah’s incessant bullshit on top of it all...” Arthur trailed off, looking away abruptly and shaking his head, “Never mind, forget I said anythin'.” 

They rode in silence for a beat or two, before John gathered the nerve to break it. 

“We’ve all been on edge since Blackwater,” he started a little awkwardly, words sounding hollow and useless. A frown formed on his face once he realized he was just repeating Dutch’s words from earlier. He cleared his throat. “Dutch _has_ been actin' a little more reckless lately,” he continued with more honesty, “especially when Micah’s involved. Bell’s a loose cannon and I wouldn’t piss on that man if he was on fire, but we gotta trust Dutch will see us through this. He always has.” 

He risked a glance at the man riding beside him. That was the most they had spoken since the night John had left. Arthur eyes were locked on the road ahead. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of hooves against soft grass. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way about Micah, too,” Arthur commented, almost amicably. 

_If you had so much as looked at me with something other than contempt, you would’ve known that_ , John thought with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Well, he makes it kinda hard not to.” 

Arthur snorted beside him. John pointedly kept his eyes straight ahead, afraid to break whatever spell they were under. 

They rode in silence for another moment, John's hands sweating around the reins the entire time. 

“We used to talk about these things,” he couldn’t help but say, heart spilling out of his throat at the first sign of sympathy. He winced at himself as soon as the words were out. 

“You damn well know why we don’t talk anymore,” Arthur’s jaw was a hard, tense line. 

“I know,” John whispered, the familiar old ache dropping in his stomach like a block of ice. It always came back to that. 

“Then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” Any trace of mirth John might have heard had disappeared from Arthur’s voice. 

“I know,” he repeated, resigned. 

Silence fell over them, this time heavy and suffocating. They rode side by side. The river ran large and wild by Arthur’s right, but it was the space between them that scared John the most. 

They were nearing the woods around their camp, when Arthur spoke again, surprising John. 

“Why’d you do it?” He asked, in a flat voice. 

John looked at him, startled. The sun was beginning to set behind Arthur, painting the sky red and purple. Arthur wasn’t looking at him, but John knew what those colors did to his eyes. The razor-sharp green would retreat slowly, giving way to rings of blue in the low light, darkening his irises, turning that gaze into something boundless and beyond John’s reach. 

He knew what Arthur was asking and, just like every other time in the past four years, that was the one question John could not answer truthfully, not to Arthur and not to anyone. It was a truth he had carried for years, now as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, and one he meant to carry to his grave. When he came back, his loyalty to that secret had been what cost his friendship with Abigail. It was what had made him leave in the first place. _Why’d you leave?_ Arthur would ask him, now and again, on particularly hard nights. With a half empty bottle of whiskey swaying in his grip, or a bullet wound oozing blood on his side. _Why’d you leave?_

_I left for the same reason I came back_ , he thought, staring at Arthur’s profile, painted red and purple, like the sky behind him. 

“I’ve told you before,” he began, looking away, “I was tired of Dutch’s rules, I wanted to do my own thing for a while.” 

“Dutch’s golden boy was tired of followin' rules?” Arthur’s laughed with no humor at all, “those rules never applied to you, and you know it. You could pull all kinds of shit and all you got was a stern look, at worst. Tell me why you really left, Marston.” 

John could feel Arthur’s eyes like pinpricks on the side of his face. 

He shrugged, eyes straight ahead. 

“I don’t know what else to tell you, Arthur.” 

If Arthur planned to say anything, it was interrupted by Javier’s voice calling out from his post a few feet away from the camp’s border. 

“It’s John and Arthur,” John called back, raising his hand in greeting. 

Arthur mumbled something about going to give Strauss the bad news and left. They did not speak to each other again for the rest of the evening. 

* * *

That night when John woke up from his dreams, scared and gasping for breath, the moon was nothing but a shining, thin ring in the sky. 

There was an ache in his joints that made him move stiffly and uncoordinated. The pain in his skull had truly spread all over now. His cheekbones and eye socks felt tender, like he’d been socked in the face half a dozen times, but there were no bruises or swollen tissue when he touched them gingerly. He stumbled away from the camp and into the trees, feeling nauseated. 

An abrupt muscle spasm made him trip on the root of a tree and fall to his knees on the dirt. _What is happening to me?_ he asked himself, trying to swallow down the fear. But he couldn’t. He could barely breathe with how tight his throat felt. A sudden urge to throw up made him heave violently, but nothing came out. He started to gag around a strange feeling in his throat. There was something climbing up inside him that he knew he had to push out. 

There was no time to wonder what that feeling meant, for soon he was finally spewing the contents of his dinner on the ground. 

Slowly the pressure inside his throat subsided and the air began to flow again. John got to his feet and tried to stumble back the way he’d come, but exhaustion took over and his legs gave out. He passed out amidst the trees before he could return to his tent. 

* * *

John was running in the dark. Something terrible was coming from behind, chasing him through the night. Fear kept him from glancing over his shoulder. Fear that he’d trip in the darkness, fear of what he would see if he looked. Deep in the dark, he spotted a fire. It was a camp, with people laughing and singing together. Somehow, John knew that if he could make it to that camp, everything would be alright. That the creature behind him could never reach him near that fire. 

He pressed forward until his legs ached and his lungs burned. With each of his own steps, he could hear the creature’s claws scraping against the forest floor. With every breath, he could hear the thing panting in the darkness. John stumbled as he crossed the tree line that surrounded the camp. He fell on all fours inside the ring of light provided by the fire. _I’m safe_ , he thought, _I made it to the camp, I got away_. 

The singing and laughter around the campfire had stopped. When John raised his head slowly to greet the people there, he was silenced by a terrible scream that echoed in the clearing. The people began to scramble away before him, tripping over chairs and tents and each other, running away with faces contorted by fear and disgust. _Has the creature followed me here?_ he wondered, terrified. He tried to reach out, to move towards the others, afraid to face whatever was in the clearing with them. But they only recoiled from him. _Please, don’t leave me here alone with it,_ he begged wordlessly. 

When John tried to scream for help, a blood curdling howl ripped through his throat and cut through the dark cold night. 

He woke up to something shoving at his shoulder. He twisted away, throwing a sloppy and panicked punch at whatever was there in the darkness with him. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy, Marston,” someone exclaimed, “it’s just me!” 

John squinted at the man crouching above him in the dark. The recent events slowly returned to him. He had woken up in the middle of the night feeling sick. _I wandered into the trees to throw up,_ he recalled, looking down at himself with a frown, _and I must’ve fallen sleep here at some point_. He accepted the hand that was offered and got stiffly to his feet. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled to the other man, “and sorry for, ya know,” he gestured in a way he hoped covered the whole situation. 

“It’s fine,” Javier waved a hand at him, “just go back to your tent and lay off the booze for tonight, alright?” he joked, shaking his head and going back to his watch. 

John nodded even though he knew he hadn’t had a single drop that night. 

He followed Javier’s advice and returned to his tent. His eyes were closed before his head even touched the pillow. Sleep came quickly, exhaustion winning over his nightmares for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u tell i luv their horses?? also, i know john's throwing up bc his body is literally being unmade from inside out but like... that's also my standard reaction when i pine for someone, so i completely understand. 
> 
> it's weird writing early in the game arthur bc he's such an ass! lol, im kinda speeding the background plot a bit and combined with the fact that he hasn't started his redemption arc yet, it's making him a total grumpy pants, isnt it? funny story, but when my friend read the bit where arthur calls downes a maggot she was like "maybe u should change that, it's a bit harsh!". then i pulled out the computer and showed her that scene in canon and she was like "lol, nvm, ur right". it's easy to forget his early 'im doing my best to look unfeeling and cruel bc that's my role in life' days, lol.
> 
> comments/kudos are appreciated and the invitation to be cowboy friends on twitter (@ohearting) still stands!!


	4. WAXING CRESCENT

DECAY – PART II 

“There are _**horrors beyond life's edge**_ that we do not suspect,  
and once in a while _**man's evil prying calls them just within our range**_.”

_― H.P. Lovecraft, The Thing on the Doorstep_

THE HEIST 

The following days were uneventful, until a particularly warm morning found John waking up jittery, climbing out of bed and stumbling out of his tent with a strange restlessness inside of him, that only built up with each passing hour. Now, it was late in the afternoon and the camp was quiet for once. Some of the men had gone out on Dutch’s request to look for leads on any new jobs and the women had gone to town with Uncle for supplies and hadn’t returned yet. 

Micah was starting his guard duty for that night, so the campfire was blissfully devoid of his foul presence. John’s distaste for Micah had started almost the day the man had joined the gang and it only grew worse in the six months that followed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things had a tendency to go south fast whenever that man was involved. Now, it seemed to John the longer he spent around that man, the more aware he became of his off-putting manners. The way Bell seemed to always be lurking and sticking his nose in people’s affairs. Even the timbre of his voice and the way he slurred his words and how he breathed heavily through his nose around that obnoxious laughter of his were enough to grate on John’s nerves, these days. 

But, despite the relative peace and quiet, John couldn’t rest. He kept pacing around camp, sitting down by the fire, just to get up impatiently again. Javier was lying down by the fire himself, the picture of placidity, leaning against a log and singing some Mexican song, stringing along on his guitar with eyes closed. John’s Spanish was mostly limited to ‘no disparen’ and ‘dame todo tu dinero’, but something about the melody sounded simultaneously sad and menacing to him. 

“ _Porque si vendes mi vida..._ ,” he thought the heard Javier sing, followed by a long and high pitched, “awooo”. John shook his head, giving up on trying to figure out what the man was singing about and got back on his feet, heading for his tent. 

He had finally set down on his cot, pulling his hat over his face and intent on shutting out the outside world for a minute or two, when the sound of horses outside his tent caught his attention. _Somebody must be returning to camp. More than one rider, from the sound of it_ , he noticed. He was settling back into his bed, uninterested, when someone pulled back the flap of his tent brusquely, startling John back into alertness again. 

“Sakes alive, what now,” he barked, sitting up and faltering when he saw who was leaning into his space, “Arthur?” 

“Train’s due to tonight, get ready,” was all he said, before pulling the flap back down and leaving. 

John was putting on his gun belt and picking up his coat before the words could fully register. 

When he stepped outside, Charles was already mounting Taima and, to his surprise, Sean seemed to be readying his own horse, a lanky American Standardbred, whose name John always forgot. 

“You sure about bringing him along?”, John questioned, coming up closer to Arthur and eyeing the kid dubiously. Stealing the oil cart had been one thing, train heists were something else entirely. Not only there would be a lot more civilians involved, but they could surely count on a train carrying valuable goods to have its own private security on board. The law could be on their tail within the hour once the unavoidable shootout started. 

Arthur didn’t look up from where he was checking Moby’s saddle. 

“Not at all, but I lack the time and patience to convince him otherwise,” he sighed, patting Moby’s flank. “Besides he’s a lot older than you were when you started nagging me to come along on jobs like this, if memory serves.” 

John didn’t point out that he could shoot a man’s hat off his head on a moving horse at that age, while Sean couldn’t hit the side of a barn if the sun was at his back, most days. They both knew that already. 

“I guess he’ll never learn if we don’t show him how it’s done,” he admitted, checking his repeater and mounting Old Boy. “We going or not, Morgan?” 

Arthur slung his Springfield rifle across his back and got on his white mare. 

“Let’s ride,” he said out loud and the four riders made their way out of camp, as the sun disappeared behind them. 

First, they rode to the location where they had hidden the oil. Arthur dismounted to drive the stagecoach, while Sean accompanied him on his own horse, with Moby following her rider close behind. John and Charles went ahead to scout the area where the train was to be stopped, looking for signs of law enforcement and to map the terrain. 

They were standing on a hill, searching the dark landscape for hidden threats, when they spotted Arthur and Sean’s arrival. 

“Let’s go,” John announced and both men spurred their horses back down to the train tracks. 

Arthur had positioned the stagecoach on top of the tracks and released the stolen horses out into the night. 

“Hide. And get ready,” he commanded, pulling his own bandana over his face. 

John did the same and quickly crouched behind a boulder, his double-action at the ready. He heard the other men rushing to hide on the other side of the tracks as well. 

Looking over the rock, he could see Arthur clearly, plain as day. White shirt contrasting with his otherwise dark clothes and with the darkness around him. While he looked, Arthur climbed on top of the oil barrels and stood there, cocking his Springfield and facing the train’s approach head on. Looking implacable and unafraid, like the Grimm reaper himself should think twice before taking another step. 

“What're ya doin'?” he heard Sean hiss at Arthur from his hiding place. 

_Stopping the fucking train, is what he’s doing_ John thought, awe and incredulity waring inside his chest, as they often did when Arthur Morgan was involved. 

“Makin’ sure she stops,” Arthur simply said. 

With eyes still locked on the other man, John felt the ground shake beneath his boots. He heard the pebbles rattle and the telltale whistle of the locomotive. He saw its headlight wash over Arthur, creating a contrast between light and shadows on the planes of his face. John felt his own blood pump faster in his veins, as the train charged closer, loud and inexorable. 

And, through it all, Arthur stood there motionless, unshaken. 

The train came in to view and, just when John thought he’d go dizzy from adrenaline, it screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and burnt metal, yielding to the threat on its path. Taking in the sight of the man before him, John wasn’t at all surprised. 

“What’s going on, here?” The train engineer was exiting the locomotive, kicking up a fuss. “Who are you people-” Charles came up behind him with the butt of this pistol, bringing it down before the man could finish his sentence. 

“Sean, stay here and keep an eye out for company. Charles, sneak into the baggage wagon and check for valuables,” Arthur delegated as he hopped down from the cart. “And John,” he slung the Springfield back over his shoulder, taking out his Schofield revolver instead, “with me,” was all he said, as he boarded the train, knowing John would be just a step behind. 

They burst inside the passenger’s wagon to the sound of gasps and shrieks. A hired guard was unlucky enough to be standing just a foot away from the door and immediately went for Arthur, rifle clumsy in such close quarters. Arthur closed his hand around the long barrel, instinctively pushing it away from his face. Filling the open space, John extended his arm over Arthur's shoulder. Blood and brains splattered against the inner walls and expensive looking curtains when he pulled his trigger. 

Shrieks erupted again and John pushed forward quickly, intent on controlling the crowd before the situation escalated too much. 

“Everybody stay calm and no one else will need to get shot!” He announced to the room as he pulled a bag from his coat, moving along the corridor and collecting these rich people’s money. 

He and Arthur moved through all four passenger carts filling up the bag, fast and precise, like a two-men well-oiled machine. 

The last passenger, a man in a pricey looking suit started squealing about being a lawyer and all the ways the law would punish John and his kind for their vile actions. John turned to him with the muzzle of his double action and that seemed to shut him up quicker than any word could’ve. He was about to relive the man of his gold watch, when some old instinct made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. John prepared to turn around and face the threat, but Arthur beat him to it. Before he could access what was going on, Arthur had moved to his back and twisted a pistol out from the hands of a wannabe hero sitting behind him. 

John felt his own eyes widen when the pistol fell to the floor and he took a look at the modified barrel. _Christ almighty, that cannon would’ve blown a hole the size of a plate through my chest from this close, _he marveled, in awe despite himself.__

____

Arthur wasn’t as impressed. He kicked the pistol across the floor without sparing it a second look and hit the man across the forehead with his Schofield, sending him sprawling across the seats with a pained yelp. The man scrambled to brace his fall, just to be impatiently pulled back into a sitting position, Arthur's muzzle forcing his bleeding face up. “If you wanna die a hero so bad, pal, just say the word and I’ll gladly assist you,” Arthur kindly offered, voice low and cold. 

____

Before the man could so much as whimper for his life, a burst of shots coming from the back of the train caught their attention. 

____

_Charles,_ John thought, fully alert. 

____

Exchanging a quick look with him, Arthur uncocked his revolver and they made their way to the final wagon. 

____

They caught a glimpse of Charles, seeming uninjured, but two hired guns had cornered him inside the baggage wagon. The pair was hollering obnoxiously and raining bullets against the wagon’s heavy door, getting cocky and letting their guard down, as hired guns often tended to do when presented with favorable odds, even if wrongly perceived. 

____

Coming up silently from behind the pair, John and Arthur each fired a single bullet, putting an end to all the ruckus. 

____

Charles stepped outside hurriedly, carrying a heavy bag. “Here, help me with this. There’s more inside,” he panted. 

____

Arthur whistled low and long, taking a look inside the wagon. 

____

“John, go check on Sean and bring the horses back around. That boy’s been too quiet for too long and we’re gonna need help carrying all this.” 

____

John did not need to take a peek at their loot to know they had hit something big. It had already been confirmed to him by Arthur's carefully contained tone. With a wild smile spreading across his face, he hopped off the train and jogged to where Sean was waiting with the horses, whistling for Old Boy once he was close enough. 

____

“ _Jesus, Mary and Joseph!_ , Sean exclaimed at the sound, jumping off from where he’d been leaning against the train, “Christ, Marston, are ya fixin' to give me a heart attack?” He complained, rubbing at his chest. 

____

“Come on, you said you wanted to work, now work,” John mounted Old Boy and clicked at Moby to follow, “get on your horse and bring Taima with you.” 

____

And with that, he took off in the direction of the back wagon. They had to act quickly, before all that noise attracted law enforcements. 

____

They’d began to load the horses with their loot, minus Moby. A big guy like Arthur could ride comfortably enough on the Arabian, as long as he didn't take on heavy extra weight. A cargo of that size would easily brush too close to the mare's limit. That, combined with how young and recently broken Moby was, made it best not to push their luck. 

____

John was securing the last bag on Old Boy, when they heard it. Multiple riders, approaching fast from the east. When John looked behind him, a silhouette of a scout and his horse could be seen on top of the hill he and Charles had stood on just moments before. 

____

“Took them long enough,” Sean muttered darkly, as the four of them hurried to mount their horses. 

____

“Spread out. Don’t let them follow you back to camp,” Arthur barked the orders, already turning his horse away. John took off into the woods and heard Sean and Charles hightailing into the opposite direction. 

____

John waded through the trees for a few minutes, riding as fast as he could without risking a collision, when a shot exploded against his chest, spooking Old Boy and knocking John clean off his saddle. 

____

“Shit,” he hissed through clenched teeth when his right shoulder hit painfully against the ground at full speed. His other hand went for his collarbone, where the shirt was already soaked with blood. He groaned shakily when his fingers touched the bullet hole and shattered bone. 

____

Panting against the pain, he pushed himself to his knees and searched through the darkness, darker spots dancing in his field of vision from the fall. Old Boy was nowhere to be seen and John made no attempt to call for him. Riders could be heard circling his position and he’d be damned if he led another horse of his to its death. John had his iron on his hip and the Lancaster still on his back, and that was all he’d ever need. 

____

Putting pressure against the wound with one hand and holding his revolver with the other, elbow resting low against his side to make up for the injured shoulder, John got to his feet. Two riders stepped out of the shadows. The steady muzzle of his double action greeted their arrival. 

____

One of the riders raised his hands and then climbed out of his horse slowly. As the man approached, John immediately recognized his face. Agent Milton, the detective who had been fixing to arrest Dutch since months before Blackwater. That meant the other rider had to be agent Ross. Pinkertons, sneaking up on them _again_. 

____

“Mr. Marston,” Milton commented, sounding pleasantly surprised, and walked closer while his companion remained seated on his horse. "Forgive us," he motioned to John's front, "had I known it was you, I would have advised my partner to stay his hand. I’ve been hoping to catch you alone for some time, now.” 

____

“Well, you sure got what you wanted,” John pointed out, cocking his gun. 

____

Agent Milton pointedly raised his hands higher, calmly, as if to say ‘ _see, I’m no threat. We’re all friends here_ ’. John kept his weapon up, shooting arm still braced against his side and hoping the agents wouldn’t notice the extent of his shoulder injure. 

____

“The reason I wanted us to speak,” Milton continued calmly, “is because I have a proposition for you.” 

____

“Is that right,” John scoffed. 

____

“Absolutely. You see, my men are now searching through every nook and corner in a radio of five miles, and soon they’ll bring me your friends,” he smiled cocksure, “the thing is, I’d prefer them to come to me alive, but considering the circumstances, I can’t blame my men if that ends up not being the case. And that’s where you come in, Mr Marston.” 

____

Agent Milton put his hand on John’s right shoulder. John fought hard not to wince. 

____

“I don’t want you, Marston,” he spoke, blue eyes burning holes into John’s, “or any of your friends, for that matter. I just want Dutch. Bring him to me, and I’ll call off the search and let you and the others go. I give you my word.” 

____

John didn’t waste any breath letting agent Milton know exactly how little his word meant to him. 

____

_He’s bluffing_ , John realized with abrupt clarity, _he lost Arthur and the others and he’s desperate enough that I’m his only hope_. The thought was almost enough to make John laugh in the agent’s face. 

____

“I think I’ll pass,” was all John offered, hand still pressing against the front of his shirt, now sticky with blood and sweat. 

____

The agent’s hand on his shoulder squeezed harder, fingers digging into the flesh, and John bit down hard on his tongue when the torn muscles stung sharply. Suddenly, John’s world seemed to narrow down to a pinhole, with Milton at the center. He forgot all about agent Ross, no doubt armed and watching everything from his horse. John’s own gun went slack in his grip. All he could feel was the pain, the smell of his wounds and the sharp taste of his own blood in his mouth. 

____

“Now, listen closely to me, you pathetic lowlife,” the detective continued, oblivious to the changes in the air between them, “I’d love nothing more than to see you and your merry band of thieves all hanged and-”. 

____

Before he could finish, John’s bloody hand had shot up from the front of his shirt and straight to the agent’s face, closing tight around his mouth. Milton’s eyes went wide, shocked and incredulous. John’s revolver, redundant in his fury, fell to the ground, as his other hand gripped at the back of the agent’s head. 

____

“No,” John panted, pain and anger heavy in his voice, “ _you_ listen.” 

____

John twisted his hands, with strength he never knew he had, and the agent went limp in his grip with a sickening crack of the neck. 

____

Before the body could fall to the ground, agent Ross was jumping from his horse, pistol coming up in a shaky grip. 

____

“You _savage_ ,” the agent spit at John, words made hollow by the fear that weakened his voice. He reeked with it, too. 

____

John charged at the man, fast, before he could even aim. Agent Ross fell hard to the ground, with the outlaw coming right on top of him. 

____

The agent screamed in pain and misfired into the night air, when the gun was forcibly twisted out of his hand. John looked down at him, saw the abject horror in every line of his face and the moon, huge and bright, reflected in his wide eyes. 

____

“You people will pay for this,” the man stuttered, weakly, “this is a civilized country and your days are-” 

____

John closed his hands around the man’s skull, thumbs pressing against the eyes, blocking out all that fear and the hate and the moon’s gaze. 

____

The man struggled against his hold, grabbing and scratching at John’s arms and convulsing under him, legs kicking violently against the floor. 

____

But John just kept pressing down, squeezing harder, thumbs digging in... Until blood erupted from the eye sockets, soaking his hands almost up to his wrists, warm droplets kissing his face. Abruptly, the screaming stopped and the fingers clawing at his arms slowly fell away. 

____

Minutes passed unnoticed amidst the moonlit trees, as John set there, staring at his own blood-soaked hands with some strange breed of cold alarm. He felt vaguely unnerved, like some virtuous part of him was still sensible enough to recognize the horror of what his hands had done. But it was a distant thing, kept away by the layers and layers of indifference and resignation. 

____

Sitting there, on the dirt ground with the smell of bark and blood equally strong in his lungs, John knew somehow, with abrupt clarity, that whatever _that_ was, he had been building up to it for a while, now. Dreading it, maybe even waiting for it. 

____

A sudden noise made him shoot up to his feet and turn around, teeth bared and mind blissfully blank. 

____

“John?” a man asked, uncertain, coming down from his horse and approaching slowly, “you hurt?” 

____

The words and the voice shook John out of his stupor. 

____

“Arthur,” he gasped, feeling every ache in his body, all at once. He took a look around, trying to picture what it all looked to Arthur. Agents Milton and Ross lay motionless on the ground, one twisted grotesquely and the other a bloody mess. Their horses were nowhere to be found. 

____

“Old Boy,” John muttered, remembering suddenly and turning to the other man, “Arthur, he-” 

____

“Yeah, yeah, I found him. He’s back there in the trees with Moby,” Arthur waved a dismissive hand at him, eyes moving to the bodies on the ground. “Are these who I think they are?” He asked, pitch rising at the end, as it would sometimes when he was genuinely surprised. 

____

John simply nodded. 

____

“Hell,” Arthur whistled amused, nudging at Milton's boot, “you sure did a number on them. Didn’t know you had it in ya.” 

____

When John didn’t answer, Arthur turned back to him, squinting despite the almost full moon hanging in the sky. His expression returned to the usual seriousness he had grown to reserve for John. “Any of that blood yours?” he gestured to the front of John’s shirt. 

____

“It’s just a graze,” John lied, wincing at the way his swollen shoulder pulled when he tried to cover the bullet would. And again, when he touched the tender skin around his collarbone. _Yeah, definitely broken_. The fabric of his shirt was dark enough, Arthur probably still couldn't see most of the blood. John felt more alert than he should, considering it all. “I’m still good to ride.” 

____

“Alright,” Arthur allowed, eyeing him closely, “we need a place to lie low till tomorrow. I saw an old church close by that might work, come on. We better take the bodies with us, throw them somewhere more secluded.” 

____

They debated briefly on whether they should drop the bag still seated on Old Boy's back, before deciding the war horse could handle the weight until they found a place to dump the agents. Arthur looted the bodies quickly and hoisted them on the horses, while John gingerly mounted Old Boy, giving the nervous gelding a gentle pat. “Yeah, we made it, boy. We ain’t done, yet,” he muttered, burying his fingers on the silver mane. 

____

They rode for a bit through parts unknown to John, until they began to cross a bridge and Arthur signaled for him to stop. He pulled the bodies from the back of their horses and let them roll down to river below, mumbling something about crocodiles handling his problems for once. Agent Ross had made a bloody mess on Moby's white coat. John was sure if he looked behind him, he'd see a similar stain on the light fabric of the bag secured to Old Boy. They continued on their way. A few minutes later, John found himself breaking the silence, seeking a distraction from the way the ride jostled his wounds. 

____

“So, what happened back there, after we got separated?” 

____

“I saw Charles and Sean hightailing into the hills. They were gone before Milton’s men even got a chance to lay eyes on them. They must be hiding somewhere south by now, waiting for the dust to settle. I circled back around for a while, leaving false tracks for them to follow. I was about to take off when I heard a gunshot,” he eyed John again, “figured it was you getting yourself into trouble again, so I went back to check.” 

____

Ross' pained face when John had broken the detective's grip on the gun, causing him to misfire, flashed through John's mind. He just hummed, noncommittal. 

____

Arthur seemed to want to press him for answers, but then thought better. They rode for a moment longer, until Arthur pointed at what looked like an abandoned church, hidden behind thick vegetation. Some of the walls had long crumbled, but the main chamber seemed to be mostly intact. Four decrepit walls and a roof, still holding its rusted old cross high in the sky. 

____

They left the horses hitched behind one of the lone walls, hidden in case someone ventured that way, Pinkerton or not. John left Arthur to the task and pushed his way inside, too desperate to lie down to wait for Arthur to check the place for threats first. 

____

It was dark inside and they couldn’t risk a fire, but the moon shining through the holes in the old roof provided enough light, as he stumbled around the room for a place to sit. Arthur came marching in right after, no doubt annoyed at John’s recklessness. But whatever he was about to say, seemed to get pushed aside when he caught sight of John slowly unbuttoning his own bloodied shirt, one-armed, and pulling it away. 

____

“ _Jesus_ , Marston. You said it was just a graze,” he cursed, walking all the way into the room. 

____

“Shut up, Arthur,” he shot back weakly, slouching back into the wood bench he had been sitting on. He turned his head, trying to see the state of the shoulder he injured on the fall. It looked a little purple already. The skin on his chest and arms looked even paler under the silver light, clashing remarkably with the drying blood. “Stop giving me shit for one goddamn minute and help me with this,” he gasped, motioning at his shoulder with his good hand. “I think it came out of the socket. Just, just put it back, you know what to do.” 

____

“A'right,” Arthur conceded, not at all happy, but not fighting back for once. He wrapped warm hands around John’s busted shoulder, calluses rough against naked skin. “On three,” he instructed, waiting for John to give him the go ahead. 

____

Holding his breath, John nodded. 

____

“One,” Arthur started and immediately pulled the bone back in its place with a sickening pop. 

____

John yelped at the unexpected pain, and then released a shaky breath around the relief that followed it. “You sonuvabitch,” he rasped without any heat. 

____

“Let me take a look at that”, Arthur continued without giving John any time to recover, pushing his hand away when he tried to cover the wound from Ross' shot. 

____

“It’s nothing,” John insisted, even as he allowed Arthur to take a closer look. 

____

“It’s still stuck in there,” Arthur announced after pulling a bit at the skin around the hole, “I’m gonna have to pull it out.” He pulled a bottle of cheap looking whiskey from his satchel, popped it open with his teeth and poured some of it on his own hands. He then used it to wash the bullet hole. “Drink this,” he shoved the open bottle into John’s hand. 

____

John grit his teeth at the stinging liquid seeping into his wound and took a big gulp, staring at the red river of blood and whiskey trailing down his own chest. 

____

He couldn’t help the sound that scratched out of his throat, when Arthur dipped his finger into the wound, with nothing more than a somber look for warning. John squeezed his eyes shut as the finger seemed to dig forever, searching for the bullet buried in his flesh. 

____

The piece of metal fell to the stone ground with a sharp sound, like a coin. Arthur made quick work of stitching the wound close with practiced hands. After a beat, John opened his eyes to see the other man slumping back on the other end of the bench, looking almost as rattled as he felt. Arthur reached out, pulled the bottle back from John’s grip and took a long drag, bloody fingers curling around the neck and staining the glass. He handed it back to John, who took another grateful gulp. 

____

“When I came back,” Arthur started, voice and eyes suddenly a shade darker, “first thing I found was your horse. Foaming at the mouth, scared half to death. There was nothing but blood on the saddle,” he drank again, taking the bottle from slack fingers. “Thought you was done for.” He kept looking at John, with something angry and unguarded about his eyes. 

____

The air felt charged by something painfully familiar to John. _It seems we always end up back here,_ John noted, exhausted in too many ways to count, _Are you going to ask me again, Arthur? Say your part, so I can tell my dutiful lie, over and over?_

____

“John,” before Arthur could get another word out, John pushed himself up, uncaring about his own pain, and closed his filthy fists around the other man’s white collar, pulling him down until their lips met. 

____

_It doesn’t matter,_ John thought. All that dread and shame. The fear of what Arthur would do, what he would think of him. Of Abigail’s look of helpless pity, of Dutch and Hosea’s rage and disappointment, of all the things that would happen if this secret ever reached any of them. _None of that matters. I got something else inside of me, now. Something truly ugly and dangerous. It’s eating at me, at my core. Climbing up my throat, kicking and screaming to get out. And I can’t stop it. I know that now._

____

The kiss had barely been a brush of lips, before John pulled away. 

____

“That’s why,” he gave answer to the question that had lingered between them for years. He was about to fall back against the bench, when Arthur’s hand came up to his neck to halt his escape. 

____

Arthur looked at him with wide eyes. The unguarded confusion and hurt John saw there were almost too much for him to bear. It was a relief when that expression swiftly changed into something meaner, closer to anger. Arthur's hand travelled to the back of his neck, closing tight on his hair and John braced for a punch. 

____

What he got, instead, was a kiss. A bruising one, filled with teeth and fury and words he knew Arthur didn’t know how else to speak. That was new, and yet, familiar. That was how they used to talk when words were too heavy, with fists and kicks and cuffs to the head and not so playful shoves. Back when Arthur would shove him to the ground for doing something reckless and then turn and punch a man to a bloody pulp for pointing a gun at John. There was a secret language to their violence. This time, John opened up his lips and made sure to listen. 

____

“Why now?” Arthur growled against his mouth, “after all these years, why now?” 

____

_Because I finally got nothing else to lose._

____

“I’m tired of running from it,” he panted. Hosea had once taught him that the easiest way to lie was to offer up another truth instead, “I’m tired of holding back. Tired of having to look away all the goddamn time.” 

____

The confession felt somehow more damning than the kiss had. When Arthur’s hand came up to touch his face, John fought hard not to bolt out of their dark little dilapidated church, standing bare and stubborn against the ruthlessness of time. 

____

“Yeah. I’m tired, too, Marston,” he confessed in a low voice, tracing John’s scars with rough fingers. 

____

And with that gesture, John thought he could see the other man a little clearer. Warmth bloomed in his chest, familiar and staggering. _Awe and incredulity_ , he thought, recalling the way Arthur had stood on those tracks earlier. He leaned in to kiss those lips again, and again. Softer and deeper each time, testing the new limits of what he was allowed to take. 

____

But Arthur just let him take more and more each time, hands curling around his hips and pulling gently at John until he was straddling Arthur’s lap. They kissed for an eternity, as if afraid of what would happen when they stopped. They had to, though, when John’s quiet moans turned into something pained. 

____

He tried to protest when Arthur began to push him away, back down to the bench. 

____

“No, stop, it's okay," Arthur's shook his head when John reached for him again, "you're hurt and I," he interrupted himself, rubbing a hand across his face, leaving traces of John's blood on his blond stubble and kiss-bruised lips. "Just, go to sleep, John,” the familiar gruffness was back in his voice. “We’ll have time later,” he promised, even as he looked away, as if the words were more than what he was comfortable with saying out loud. Without another word, Arthur moved to the floor and settled in a corner with his back turned to the room. 

____

Exhaustion hit John like a train and he let his head fall back against the hard bench. Despite wanting more, John was too relieved, still tasting Arthur on his tongue, to fear what tomorrow would bring. The almost full moon shining through the cracks in the ceiling was the last thing he saw before sleep took over.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY, so first of all, sorry to post this before proofreading, but it's my BIRTHDAY! and i promised this chapter would be out today, so i wanted to post before i head out in case i get home too late!! i'll tweak it either tonight or tomorrow, so feel free to point out any errors you might find (even the embarrassing ones!!), lol.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated <333 (pls let me know ur thoughts, desires etc........ they mean the world to me.)


	5. FULL MOON

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets pretend im not four days behind to post it D: (blame college!!)

TRANSFORMATION

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind  
as a _**great and sudden change**_.” 

― _Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein_

THE WOLF 

John stirred at the sound of a woodpecker rapping on wood. The big bird was perched at the back of John’s bench, beak tapping rapidly and digging for the insects that no doubt dwelled inside the old wood. The vibrations traveled through the bench, making John's inner ear throb unpleasantly with it. 

He set up with a grunt, picking up his shirt from the floor and shouldering it on. The movement reminded him of the previous night’s ordeal. John rotated the shoulder again, testing the joint. The pain was gone, he noticed. The bruises had already faded from his skin and the muscle moved with ease. Buttoning his shirt, he saw the stitches Arthur had given him fall from the wound and down to his lap once his fingers rubbed against it. The skin had almost fully healed and pushed the sutures out overnight, somehow. He poked at the puckered skin, feeling the bone underneath it, expecting pain and finding none. 

Before he could marvel on it any longer, Arthur marched inside the room, startling John and the woodpecker alike, who chose that moment to flee through one of the many gaps on the ceiling. John quickly closed his last couple buttons. He looked down to check that the shirt was covering everything, irrationally afraid of being caught doing something he knew was completely beyond his will or comprehension. There wasn’t much he could do about the dry blood that still coated his dark gray shirt, though. 

Arthur faltered for a moment, seeming surprised to have caught John awake. He had his boots and gun belt on. 

“You’re lookin’ better,” he stated as way of greeting, sounding a little upended. 

“Feel better, too,” John offered, trying for an air of indifference and bracing for the worst. A black notebook in Arthur’s hand caught his eye. “What’s that,” he nodded at it. 

Arthur fidgeted with the notebook, seeming to think hard on how to answer, expression darkening. “It’s something I found inside Milton’s coat, but we will talk about that later.” He shoved the little black book deep inside his own satchel. “Listen,” he started, walking closer to John, “I took Moby and checked the perimeter while you were sleepin’. I reckon we’re safe, but I’m gonna head out further and see if the way back to camp is clear.” 

“Alright,” John nodded when the other man continued to watch him. 

“I was just waitin' for you to wake up, so you wouldn’t...” he trailed off, looking troubled. 

“Sure,” John encouraged him, not sure of anything. 

Arthur suddenly leaned closer with a hand braced at the back of the bench. His face betrayed nothing and he barely looked John in the eye, before their lips were touching again. Just a warm kiss at the corner of John's mouth and then he was pulling away again. 

“Don’t go outside, don’t light a fire and don’t be stupid. I left a couple cans for you over there,” he nodded at a corner barely looking away from his riding gloves as he pulled them on. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. After all the trouble I went to keep them away, the last thing I want is to come back here and be greeted by Pinkertons, you hear me?,” he grunted, already turning back. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” Arthur threw over his shoulder and disappeared outside. 

John set there, listening to the sounds of Arthur talking gently to his horse and then climbing on her saddle. The soft ringing of spurs turned into hooves smacking on grass and stone and then faded away into nothing. A sudden presence forced John to shift his attention to his side. A few feet from him, perched on a tall and rusty candle holder, was the woodpecker. The black and white bird twisted its red head at John, big yellow eye blinking sideways at him. John found himself huffing amusedly at the bird’s attention. 

“What? This your bench?” John drawled as the bird flickered his wings, as if annoyed, “Yeah, I guess it’s gonna be a long day for the both of us,” he sighed, peeking at the sun high in the sky. 

It was near sundown, when John began to truly worry. Arthur had said he’d return before nightfall, and the sky was already turning purple as the sun ebbed away. 

_What if he’s hurt? What if they caught him?_ He worried, pacing around the small chamber, _What if he thought better of what we were doing and went back to camp, hoping I’ll take the hint and leave him alone? What if he left like I did, all those years ago?_

John grit his teeth, trying to calm his breathing as the night settled and the air grew colder against his skin. His heart was beating fast. Too fast, even for his anxious state, and his usually reliable hands shook even when he balled them into fists. He felt cold sweat prickle at the back of his neck and on the palm of his hands. A migraine was starting to spread behind his eyes at the same time that his joints began to ache something fierce. He tried to move back to the bench when his knees buckled under him and he fell to the ground, gasping, as darkness pooled around him at once. 

His mouth fell open, but no words came out. A low rumbling sound seemed to catch in his chest, wanting to cut free. He heaved, fighting for air, as every muscle in his body struggled to contract and relax at the same time. The inside of his mouth and the back of his eyes burned indescribably. His hands came up to press against his eye sockets, desperate to make the pain stop. He couldn’t see, blinded either by the pain burning every inch of his body or by whatever was wrong with his eyes. He was beginning to wonder what the thick, foul and warm liquid dripping down his face and what the sudden wet weight he felt on his hands were, when a loud snap dragged a blood curdling scream from his throat. 

It felt like someone had snapped his spine clean in half, as if breaking a bundle of twigs for a fire. His head was pulled back by the twisting bones, and he saw it. The moon, burning silver and terrible in the sky, peeking through the roof just like it had the night before. But, that time, it was different. That time, he looked at her with a new pair of eyes. _Quite literally_ , he noticed, petrified. He didn’t need to look down at the gory mess he still cradled in his hands to confirm it, it was plain in the new way the night shone around him. _The moon is full, for the first time since the mountains_ , his brain registered, almost as an afterthought, and his blood went cold. 

That was his last clear thought, before a sequence of snapping bones brought him fully to the ground. He was heaving and gasping, as his body shifted under his own skin. His limbs twisted and pulled in unnatural angles. His bones seemed to grow continuously under the layers of muscle and skin, until those layers gave in too, ripping apart painfully and inexorably, uncaring for his screams. He was changing, turning into something else, something horrible, and his old body wasn’t big enough to contain it. _Nothing can contain this_ , he choked down on his panic, as tears mixed in with blood. 

He saw his own flesh fall forcibly to the ground. His muscles twitched helplessly with each tooth that popped out of its socket and fell from his bloody mouth, only to be replaced by sharper, bigger ones. He whimpered when his joints twisted into new shapes and growled in two different voices, when his human face split open to make way for the new, darker one. For a moment, all he felt was fire, as his back ripped open, finally bringing forth the beast of nightmares that was him. 

The screams slowly morphed into howls, as the giant wolf lifted his head up into the night sky. 

The wolf twisted his body, shaking off some of the blood and gore that coated his fur. He sniffed at the fleshy remains under him, licking at his chops. The wolf was hungry, but the meat under him was wrong, not made for eating, not for him at least. He was about to seek through the rest of the stone, when a new smell stopped him in his tracks, forcing his gaze to a hole on the side of the man-made rock. The wolf stood there, hairs standing taller along his spine and sniffing the air, when a shadow stepped into view. 

A man. He had a piece of iron pointed forward. It smelled like oil and gunpowder and was both familiar and foreign to the wolf. It promptly fell to the ground as the man staggered, taking in the sight before him. Despite the shock, the man stood stubbornly rooted in place, stinking of both fear and rage, when others would have long run away. 

The wolf ached inside from hunger and wasted no time charging forward. The man fell to the ground silently, with the wolf looming over him. The stone ground knocked the air out from his lungs and the wolf felt it warm and rich against his nostrils and tongue, as he opened his jaws to kill. _Mint and bitter coffee_ , the words echoed in his brain in some other voice. The strange combination of scents made him halt. 

Then, he could feel the man’s fists, clenching at his sides, digging into his thick fur and twisting so hard it was almost painful. So hard, that the man’s whole frame shook with it. He peered down at the human face below him. There was fear in the eyes, primal and unescapable, and fury, too. It twisted the lines of his face into something almost fierce enough to mask the terror. But underneath it all, burning inside the green, lay something else entirely. Something too human for the wolf to comprehend. But it scratched and pierced unpleasantly at some deep part of him and the wolf recoiled from it, both mentally and physically. 

He jumped away from the man and into the open air with a final low growl. The smell of horse attracted his attention and he turned to follow it. Something snagged at back of his brain, though, _No,_ it seemed to say, _wrong smell, wrong direction_. The wolf twisted back around, snapping his jaws, irritated by those whispers, but obeying nonetheless. He kept running through the trees and soon a new thought lifted his spirits and put more speed to his stride. _There is deer in these woods,_ he, or the whisper, or both supplied, _and I know where to find it_. 

The wolf spent the rest of the night running and hunting and eating. The voice in his head remained blissfully muted, thoughts of the man with angry green eyes and mint on his breath forgotten, in favor of the less complicated smells of the wet earth and of prey’s sweat and fear. When his stomach was full, he fell into an exhausted slumber. 

When morning came, the wolf roused again. 

He wandered without clear aim, feeling wrong and exposed under the sunlight. Following some unknown drive deep within him, he strode across the land, crossing rivers and trees, keeping out of sight. Instinctively, the wolf knew that, devoid of siblings and under the sun, he was at his weaker and should not risk to be seen by men. He kept a leisurely pace, stopping to eat and sleep as those needs stirred within. 

It was night fall again, when the wolf caught a familiar scent. It snagged badly at his thoughts, making the whispers inside his skull thrum wildly. The wolf twisted against it, trying to shake the feeling away. He jumped into a shallow river, as if to lose the scent of those whispers that seemed to seep from his pores, lingering stubbornly on his skin and fur. 

The river did nothing to wash him clean and, instead, the wolf caught himself staring at his own reflection, looking back at him on the slow running water. The wild black fur, the bright brown eyes that seemed to swallow the moonlight. The scars on his face, _two thick lines on my cheek, one of them stretching all the way past the bridge of my nose. Another on my temple._ It was the voice in his head that said those words, the whisper at the back of his skull. In that moment, the wolf knew: those scars somehow marked _his_ face as well as the wolf’s. 

For some reason that realization rattled him to his core. The wolf turned away from that river, hoping to shut down those thoughts. But the urge to keep pushing forward only grew stronger and he found himself walking deeper into the trees, even though he knew it was exactly what the voice wanted. He walked until he reached a clearing, paws threading softly against the dry leaves and fallen branches. 

In the clearing, there were two men. The presence in his mind grew restless and the wolf crouched low to observe. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, Bell?” One of the men asked, voice laced with danger. Both the sound and the words stirred something within the wolf. 

The other man turned from where he’d been hurriedly packing his things, startled, only then noticing the other’s presence. He schooled his manners quickly, though. 

“Oh, you know how these things are, cowpoke,” he smiled widely, “it was nice while it lasted, but I was never gonna stick with you boys for long. Dutch understands.” 

“Trust me, Micah,” the first man stepped further into the clearing, “Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit if you left,” he let his arms hang loosely beside him, hand resting on the piece of iron on his hip, “but I’ve got a question for you, and I ain’t leavin' 'til I get my answer.” 

“Well, then make it quick, Morgan,” Micah threw over his shoulder dismissively, smile dropping as he struggled to dismount his camp. “I’m ain’t too keen on lingerin' here any longer.” 

“I know you’ve been in contact with Milton,” the man called Morgan announced matter-of-factly. Micah froze where he was standing. “I know you talked,” he continued, tone dangerously calm, “I know you struck a deal with him. Fed him information, told him about our plans, where and when we’d be,” he produced a small book from his back pocket and threw it on the ground between them with disinterest, “it’s all there, in Milton’s journal. He’s dead, by the way,” Morgan scratched leisurely at his own beard, “That can’t be good for your side of things. But then again, I’m guessin’ you already knew something was off, from the way you’re scurryin’ away.” 

Micah stared blankly at the black journal on the ground for a beat or two, before letting out an amused exhale. The sound grated on the wolf’s nerves. 

“Really, cowpoke? For month’s you’ve been tryin’ to pin this all on me and when you finally have something you can use, you bring it to me?” Micah smiled genuinely for the first time since the wolf spotted him, “What, you thought you was gonna throw this at my feet and I would crumble under the weight of my guilt, confess everything? Promise to be good next time?” He mocked, tone turning darker even as his eyes glinted with mirth. “Oh, Morgan, you really should have gone straight to Dutch with that.” 

Morgan’s neutral expression changed minimally, just a slight upward quirk at the side of his lips. 

“You misunderstand me,” he clarified, taking another step closer, uncaring to the way Micah’s posture tensed at that. "I'm not here for an apology,” another step, “I don’t care if Dutch will believe me or not,” he was only three feet from the other man then, “I’m not here to take you in, Micah. I’m here to kill ya. But first-” 

Micah’s hand went for his own gun, pulling it out fast, interrupting Morgan’s words. Morgan was faster, though. Faster than Micah’s gun and faster than the wolf. Before he could move from his hiding place, a sound like thunder had cut through the air. Smoke was dancing from the barrel of Morgan’s gun, while Micah clutched at his wounded hand, his own gun forgotten on the floor. The man gasped without a sound, seeming shocked by the sudden pain. Until his eyes moved from Morgan to land on his now bloody fist, noticing the space were two of his fingers used to be, both now gone. 

Micah let out a short shout, face twisting in pain and fury. He bared his teeth, eyes burning at the other man. 

“But _first_ ,” Morgan continued where he’d left off, voice betraying his own anger for the first time. He closed the distance between them with two long steps and grabbed a fistful of Micah’s shirt, pulling him straighter from where he’d been curling protectively around his mutilated hand. Morgan rested the barrel of his revolver against Micah’s cheek, muzzle still hot and so close to the other man’s eye he was forced to squeeze it shut. 

“First, you will answer my question,” Morgan informed him. He seemed to still himself, before continuing. “Milton died before he could write that one down, so enlighten me: the train heist from last night, the one I brought Marston,” he let out through gritted teeth, “was that you?” 

Micah just stared at him with nothing but hatred. 

“ _Was that you?_ ” Morgan repeated the question. The wolf felt his own blood pump faster at the change in his voice. The more dangerous his tone, the more the wolf wanted to jump in, to sink his teeth into something, to fight whatever fights that man was fixing to start. Unclenching from the front of Micah’s shirt, Morgan’s free hand moved to squeeze at his bloody fingers instead. 

Micah howled in pain. 

“ _NO_ ,” he hissed, “goddamn you, no. Alright?” he panted when the other man let go of his hand. Morgan didn’t look at all pacified by the confession. “He hasn’t contacted me in weeks. I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” The wolf could tell he was lying, could smell it on him. “If something happened,” Micah let out another of his short wheezing laughters, smiling even as he held gingerly at his shot-up hand, “well, I guess that’s just one of them things, ya know.” 

Morgan looked torn, like he had been hoping to hear something different. Like Micah’s denial had struck him harder than his too-slow bullet ever could have. He took an uncertain step back and closed his eyes for a second, face creasing in frustration and something else the wolf could not decipher. But one second was all it took. Taking advantage of the distraction, Micah used his good hand to pat at his back, pulling out a hunting knife. The moon shone bright on the sharp edge. 

Even with his wound, Micah was fast. 

But the wolf was prepared then and he was faster. 

Morgan opened his eyes in time to see him coming and to throw his own body out of the way. 

The wolf crossed the clearing lighting fast. Dark and silent like a shadow. Micah turned around only to drop his knife to the ground, face and limbs going slack with terror at the sight that greeted him. The wolf knew what he looked like, he remembered it then. Bright eyes shining in the dark, a row of terrible teeth, impossibly large and yet fast and inescapable, crawling straight out of one’s nightmare, offering nothing but a ruthless death. 

“Father, I’m...” was all Micah had time to whisper, lips barely moving, glassy eyes lost in some distant memory of the past, before the wolf snapped his jaws around his neck, severing the head clean off. The body seemed to stay there for a beat too long, before the legs folded and it dropped to the floor to join its head. 

The head kicked and rolled across the grass twice, then a third time, before the wolf hopped after it and closed his teeth around it again, carrying it over to where the other man was sitting down, legs splayed before him and gun aimed at the wolf. The wolf dropped the head at Morgan’s feet. The man just stared at him with a closed expression, trying to hide his fear as his gun wavered in the air almost imperceptibly. 

The wolf moved forward, undeterred. He hovered above Morgan, massive body pushing the gun to the side so he could inch closer to the man’s pale face. Morgan was shaking under him, chest moving fast and sweat gathering at his temples. The wolf licked at it and the men fell on his back with a sharp intake of breath, gun clattering uselessly to the floor. 

The wolf huffed, frustrated. The puff of air ruffled the man’s dark blond hair. He licked at the pale skin again, trying to communicate, in ways those limited human senses could understand, that he wasn’t a threat. Morgan’s fists went to the wolf’s shoulders, closing tight around his fur, like they had the previous night. Brown eyes stared down at him unbothered. 

Morgan’s eyes danced across his face wildly, not focusing on anything. Until they did. He let out a strangled exhale, startling the wolf. One of Morgan’s hands moved slowly to his snout, tracing his scars gingerly. 

He looked pained and furious and confused. The whisper inside the wolf’s head was going wild, banging at the walls, fighting to come out. The more the wolf looked into those green eyes, the harder that thing struggled. And the harder it struggled, the clearer those eyes became to him. The wolf could see it then, that hidden emotion he could not decode the previous night. Underneath the promise of violence and the fear, lay something he should not have been able to comprehend. Grief, ugly and vicious. It was what twisted the man’s features like he was being burned, what made his knuckles go white against the dark fur and what made him stay and bare his neck in defiance when he should have run. 

Unwanted guilt and sadness grew inside of the wolf. He wanted to pull away, to hide from the sudden truth deep within the trees, to live to hunt another day. He wanted to keep Morgan safe and protect him, to howl and tear at whatever had caused him pain. But deep down, the wolf new both paths could not coexist. 

He pulled back, turning farther and away from Morgan’s gaze. He looked one last time at the silver light in the sky. 

And then closed his jaws around his own shoulder and _pulled_. The skin began to rip and he turned to his other side, biting and pulling at every place he could reach. The wolf howled and tore at himself, until he didn’t have to anymore. Soon the transformation took will of its own and the muscles and skin and bones began to rip at their own volition. 

The pained howls turned into human screams and, finally, the massive ribs fell open, freeing the man that had been trapped inside. 

On shaky legs and covered in blood and gore, John Marston rose to his feet. He blinked up at the sky, chest heaving and arms wrapping weakly around himself. He let out a sound that was caught between a sob and laughter. Stumbling out of the wolf’s open carcass, he gave two unstable steps, before his weakened legs gave under him. 

Before he could touch the ground, a pair of familiar arms closed around him, controlling both their falls. He let himself be moved, gratefully lying on his back while the other man set astride his body, hovering above him. 

“ _Arthur_ ,” he rasped, finally in control of his mind again. 

Arthur let out a pained sound. He leaned down, bearing his teeth and punching the ground beside John’s head with a sound too stifled and low in his chest to be considered John’s name. 

_Say something, please, anything,_ John wanted to beg, but his throat was torn, voice shot to hell and lungs struggling to remember how to breathe again. 

“You,” Arthur started, before clenching his jaw around the words, “you were gone and I” he stopped himself again, angry in a way John had only seen him a couple times in all the years they had known each other. Arthur grabbed at John’s jaw, fingers slipping on the wolf’s blood that covered every inch of his skin. “You don’t get to do that anymore, you hear me, not now,” his other hand raked across his own mouth, one of his many unconscious tells. 

He pawed at John, hands traveling across his dirty skin, blindly checking him for injuries with a fierceness that was almost bruising. His eyes remained glued to John’s face. 

All at once, Arthur seemed to simmer down, the anger leaving his eyes and being replaced by exhaustion and resignation, as his hands settled almost gently back on John’s face. He looked down, avoiding John’s eyes. “I didn’t know what to do, with you gone,” he muttered low, almost to himself. 

John tried to say his name, but his throat closed around the sound, so he pulled the man’s face down instead. Their lips met in a hungry, furious open-mouthed kiss that tasted like blood and dirt. Arthur bit hard on his lip, only to lick the pain away before John could protest. He had a hand closed around John’s tangled hair and another clutching hard at his naked shoulder, keeping him down. 

Suddenly, John was aware of how close he came from losing that forever. From disappearing into the beast's mind, forgetting and forgotten. He twisted in Arthur's hold, pulling away, needing to look at the other man’s face, to see what his eyes looked like in that light. The moon was still hanging high in the sky, painting the clearing in a melancholic silver. But there was nothing sad about Arthur’s eyes. The rings of green seemed to burn with their own light, blown pupils turning his gaze darker, unheeding to the moon or the sun or any outside force. Those eyes looked down at John as if _he_ was the only force that mattered. 

John felt the urge to look away, to protest, to open his mouth and say something, anything that could make the other man stop looking at him like he was the only light in the world. But, before he could, Arthur pulled his face closer again and silenced him in the only way he ever could: with rough hands in John’s bloodied hair, stubble scratching against his scars. With shared blood and breath, as their lips moved together, speaking in that bruising language only the two of them really knew how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, i hope u guys had fun, too!
> 
> let me know ur thoughts, questions and hopes for future fics, things u wanna see more or less of etc!! im super excited to throw more morston (and mayhaps some abigail/sadie!) content out there :3c
> 
> (hit me up @ohearting on twitter, guysss)


End file.
